


Deadly Sin

by fleurlicorne



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9770399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlicorne/pseuds/fleurlicorne
Summary: Vegeta was a priest tasked with keeping humans on the straight and narrow but a certain blue-haired temptress was schooling him on the deadliest sin of them all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Ball is the property of Akira Toriyama and sadly not me.

It was a popular misconception that the fires of hell burned red when the red had to be restricted to only the outermost limits. Contrastingly, the hottest fires in the innermost circle of hell burned blue. This blue was sinfully deceptive in its allure, attracting unfortunate souls to its warmth and comfort until its flames would advance to burn you alive. And through the mixed blessing of painful firsthand experience, which was the result of many scorched fingertips while foolishly trying to avert the flames, he had come not only to fear but to respect the fire. 

But who could have ignited this blazing blue inferno inside him? The identity could only have been one person, the most unlikely suspect who concealed their gasoline stained fingers under a prayer cloth and a wide-eyed enactment of propriety that was beyond reproach. It could only have been an angel of the highest rank, a lovely seraph but incongruously, still just a teenage girl, the lead vocalist in his congregation’s choir. 

She was classically beautiful yet also avant-garde in her appearance, a Hellenistic work and an It Girl for her generation. Her beauty, her mind and her manner exemplified a triple invocation of holiness to him. And she was a celestial being in her own right, with clouds of sky blue hair and with a strong and fiercely independent attitude that was as subject to change as the weather, where she would be calm and sunny one moment and in the next, would be bearing down on you like a monsoon. She was what you would describe as a free spirit and a wind blowing in whatever direction she pleased. Her face was youthful and impressionable, cherubic even, like a freshwater sea not yet polluted with all the sewage of the world. And she was just the whole package of candy sweet murmurs that will rot your teeth, of crystalline waterworks that will emphatically make you drown in your own tears and of gumdrop smiles that will stick to the cockles of your heart. 

But more than that, what could only be ignored at your own risk, what was as subliminal as a blink but flirtatious as a wink, was that there was sin in her every movement. Sin was the secret ingredient responsible for the addictiveness of her confectionary treat, reminding him of the fiery flavour of cinnamon hearts. Her sin was most apparent in her body, that rectory of nubile flesh that couldn’t be disguised by those baggy habits that she donned. She had one foot leaving childhood and one foot entering adulthood and in this middle ground, she was morphing from a nymphet into the queen of the woods, with each step taking her closer to him. 

So that was how the fire started within him as the age old temptations of the flesh. And the fire spread beyond a superficial burn, when he discovered more little hints of the multifaceted nature of herself, such as the intimidating intelligence and the hidden warrior within who was not content to be at peace but was always looking for a fight. 

It was Sunday service and he as the priest was the circus act that his flock were all trained to look towards and follow. They were all mindless sheep except for her, the black sheep, that one bad apple that his inner snake was also hissing in his ear to make him eat. 

Don’t be mistaken, she chanted along with all the rest, outwardly as devout as everyone else, but there was derision in her eyes, like she found the act of devotion to just be some amusing or cruel sport that she had decided to play along with. 

He stared in a trance at her lips that were naturally coated in the most vibrant rose red, and he was suddenly a turncoat to all his beliefs. He forgot where he was and what he was proselytizing. Why was he quoting Psalms when he could slam her body into the pulpit instead?...

His voice wavered, which he could dishonestly attribute to the emotion of the prayer, but it was all because of her. He was the ringleader in that house of god but she made him feel like a trained seal forced to bark and perform tricks at her command. What was he even accomplishing here on Earth? What was the status of his pilgrim’s progress?

It was royal tradition on Vegetasei that before the king abdicated in favour of his successor, that the prince-in-waiting would complete a mission voyage. He would be sent across the cosmos, sometimes for many years, forsaking all luxury and temptation, only serving as a mouthpiece for the lord to enlighten primitive minds. When he had adequately matured, the king would recall him from distant lands, assured that his heir had the staunchness of mind and moral backbone, not just the strength and power famed in his species to honourably rule. 

The religion of the Saiyans was centred around Broly, the only Saiyan to have ever lived who had achieved the legendary. Broly was the preeminent figure in all Saiyan history because to Saiyans, one’s strength meant everything. The Super Saiyan transformation had only occurred once Broly had become a prisoner on a virtually extinct enemy’s, the Icejinn’s planet. Deprived of everything, tortured daily and from humility and not grandeur, he had ascended. This godly form was what all Saiyans ever since had tried to replicate, hitherto without success, for the true nature of a Saiyan was that of a beast, and it was so difficult to deny who you really were. 

Vegeta had lived ascetically for years, even as the crown prince of Vegetasei when it had not been necessary or expected to be so disciplined. But Vegeta had always been more zealous than most. He was determined to become the second coming and to surpass Broly himself. 

When his father, King Vegeta, had celebrated his 150th birthday, he had taken his teenage son to the side and informed him that the time had come, that Vegeta would be sent on his mission. 

On the grand tour of his kingdom’s colonies where he re-educated extraterrestrial lifeforms with the teachings of Broly, nothing had ever tempted him. It had never been easier to live soberly for Vegeta out in space, until the day that he and his royal retinue arrived at their final destination. 

They were deployed on the third planet orbiting a medium sized star at the edge of the milky way galaxy. It had seemed like such a mundane world at first, lush, warm and inviting but inhabited by such weak and stupid creatures. It was a planet similar to hundreds of others in his family’s empire. The local populace had already been forcibly converted to Brolyism many years before, so now it was the only official religion. Vegeta was appointed as the priest at a church for disenfranchised youth. In that sacred house, that was where he had seen her and that was what had triggered his own excommunication process.

She had been walking down the hallway of the church, with her nose buried deep in The New Testament. She had not been looking at where she was going, so she had bumped right into him. As she had begged his pardon, imagine an Earthling like her dirtying a priest’s finery, she had raised her head in penitence. It was then that he had seen her eyes of blue acid that had burned him down to his soul alongside her words of apology that had risen from her mouth like atmospheric methane. For a second, everything else had dimmed but the blue burning bright from her. All at once, his latent repressed sexuality had been brutally awakened. From that moment on, he was as weak as every other Saiyan excluding Broly. This anonymous alien girl was a supreme test of his faith. And until he learned her real name, he cursed her as his Jezebel. 

“Nappa, Raditz, have you ever been truly tempted?” This was what he had inquired of two of the friars that had accompanied him from Vegetasei to Earth. It had been a serious knock to his pride to ask such a profane question, but the unanswered question had been knocking around his insides for so long that he had to open his mouth and give it exit. 

Nappa and Raditz had turned towards him and away from the dead sea scrolls that they had been translating from Saiyago into the universal tongue. The baffled hilarity in their expressions had made him want to rewind time back to five seconds prior when he had still been a faultless leader. But it had been too late, he might as well have continued digging his own grave.

“By a temptation that lasts not only for a lunar cycle but one that you might think is for life?” 

Nappa had shaken his head. There had been some disappointment in his countenance like he had believed that his prince was beyond such childish musings. “No, we are Saiyans. We take a bite out of temptation, then take our fill of it and finally rip its head off when we’re done. There can be no talk of forever when the present isn’t even guaranteed.” 

Raditz had been nowhere near as tactful or concise. Despite being almost the same age as Vegeta, he could not have been more different. It was no shameful cross for him to bear to have temptation as his mistress. But that was tolerable even in Saiyan society as he was low class scum, that no social engineering or prospect of an improved social standing in court after landing this mission gig could fix. Raditz was completely indifferent to all that, he had never taken his people’s main ambition to become the legendary very seriously. He had told Vegeta that he could have it, that he had withdrawn from the competition since he preferred to live and let die. 

With his bacchanals in the vestibule and an orgy near every night in the church fountain, Vegeta had watched Raditz live on the energy of his dead Saiyan ideals. Vegeta had never envied Raditz for his liberal approach to everything for he had his own bloated sense of false superiority to keep him on the road of a purpose-driven life. That was until he had met his blue Madonna, then he had yearned to be as gluttonous in fornication as Raditz was but still the power of religion had stymied him once again. Even Broly had been tempted by sex slaves from Freeza’s harem, but that had not been enough to make him lose his pride. No, what was normal for a prole like Raditz would have been like committing regicide for himself. He was the second coming after all. 

Raditz had guffawed, “The prince of all Saiyans has a crush. But for what or more importantly who? Is it for a love of drink or for the gourmet cuisine here? Is it concerning your potent bloodlust to exterminate this weak race? Or could it be? Could it be for that tasty tidbit, the girl in the choir, the gifted head scientist’s daughter who would not look out of place amongst the fairest courtesans, that blue-haired Lucrezia Borgia? I wouldn’t mind a taste of her too, Paragus knows I’ve tried, but she always acts so puritanical with me. It’s a pity.” 

A snarl from the oozaru faction of his consciousness had escaped him, until he had remembered his position and scowled disdainfully instead. 

Raditz for his part had been incurably cheerful, smiling his dunce’s grin, as he had looked to Nappa for backup, raising his hand as if to high five him. “Ahh, so it is her, she seems too pure though.” 

And Vegeta had felt a smirk threatening against his lips. Raditz couldn’t understand anything that wasn’t on extravagant display in front of him, he would have had no suspicion that that blue slip of a thing was far from being god’s creature. 

“Don’t tarnish an angel Vegeta-chan. Don’t turn her into angel dust just so you can feel for one fleeting second, her drug intoxicating your blood. Because then you’ll feel the itch right after and forever more and watch how fast that halo, that crown around your head disappears into dust too. No, best leave her to become ashes to ashes and dust to dust in my arms. It’s not like an entire kingdom is relying on me and I am one fine piece of ass.” 

Vegeta had decided to push Raditz into the unmarked grave he had been digging for himself along with the jealousy and revulsion that he had been awkwardly balancing in his hands like spinning plates while the teacup of fear he had been sipping from fell six feet under first. “You, a fine piece of ass?” Vegeta chortled. “Your asshole is all used up and stretched out Raditz. I'm scared of what I'll find up there, no doubt skeletons of small rodents and Paragus knows what else.” 

Nappa had chimed in, “I think my keys are lost up there too.” 

Vegeta had folded his arms, wanting to put an end to this discussion and to reclaim his pride. “That choirgirl would never express any interest in an unsophisticated ape such as yourself.” 

Raditz had graciously borne the brunt of their insults, the expression on his face had been almost like he found it all to be praise. But he had known how to ruffle his prince. “Alas, maybe it is not to be with me and her, but maybe my brother Kakarot has a chance.” 

Vegeta’s arms had unfolded so quickly into open fists. 

“Weren’t you aware Vegeta? Kakarot and her always pray together for matins.” 

The rage he had felt brewing inside him right then had been frightening. 

“Kakarot is breaking Saiyan law. No Saiyan not of the clergy is to associate with any foreign national unless it is strictly for business or communal worship. Kakarot is here to learn Earthling agricultural trades to assist with the farming on Vegetasei, he is not qualified to be anyone’s spiritual guide.” 

Raditz had shrugged. “You know how Kakarot is, he’s too pure-hearted and utterly without motive yet too thick headed to adhere to any law. Everyone becomes his friend regardless of the rules that are set in place. But Kakarot’s insubordination is not without advantage. That’s how I discovered that the choirgirl is also quite a brilliant inventor. Oh, and if you’re curious, I can even tell you her name.” 

“What? Kakarot is taking too many liberties beyond his station if he has obtained that type of information.” 

It was quite scandalous to learn and address any conquered civilian by their given name. The Saiyans designated each human with their own six-digit I.D. and in church, each male was only Brother and each female was only Sister. 

Raditz might not have known how to read purity from a foreigner’s face but he could read his prince unaided. “So you are curious. I’ll tell you and I’ll even be so kind as to keep this little sin between us. Between friends.” 

Vegeta had clenched his fists, but had done nothing to deflect the conversation. Raditz could not have known that he had secretly been seeking her name like a demon does for a god. He would need to punish himself and say a hundred Hail Gines later. 

Making a drum roll with his fingers, Raditz had confided, “Her name is Bulma. Pretty Sister Bulma. They say the etymological root of her name is bloomers, as in underwear. That seems sort of apt since she is something you’d like to hammock around your cock and cover in your dirty love stains.” 

Raditz and Nappa had broken into uproarious laughter while Vegeta’s fists had fallen to his sides like trees going timber. 

Once Raditz had realized that his prince had not joined in the revelry, he had sighed with an almost pitying look. 

But how absurd for the lowest caste to pity royalty. 

“You don’t have to live life as a eunuch Vegeta. Why not have just one vice to keep things interesting? I’m sure even Broly wasn’t as clean cut as they say and that you can achieve Super Saiyan nonetheless.”

Despite Raditz’s suggestion, Vegeta had gone so far as to recommit himself to eschewing all sexual relations until he achieved the legendary. But his conviction did not stop his cock from throbbing every single night, from waking him in a cold sweat and soiled sheets, from being haunted by lucid liquid dreams of her where she charmed all of his biggest nightmares into his every dream come true. 

He had not even had a taste of her high yet the need to score a hit of her was merciless. Just as Raditz had warned, he too now had developed the itch that he had to scratch away with a whip. How like him though to reap only the consequences without ever experiencing even one of the rewards. 

He found himself now every night flogging himself for hours on end with a cat o’ nine tails, with each lashing representing each viral thought of her. Each image of her of Aphrodite body concealed within that itchy habit that he wanted to remove along with her every good habit was ten lashes of the whip. The cat o’ nine tails clawing against his front and back that he imagined in his everlasting pain as her fingernails instead? That was another ten lashes. Reminiscing about her lips being anointed with wine as she took communion, with her swallowing the body of Broly whole down her generous mouth that he longed to replace with his own holy vessel? That was ten lashes more. Crack, crack, crack, the whip never ceased. Demons can be banished by shouting their name, but maybe her particular unique brand of demon would be summoned to his bed with an incantation instead. As he flayed himself, beating the whip against his back in vain, he would cry, first voiceless with his hand over his mouth but finally as a deafening roar, “Bulma…Bulma…BULMA.” 

At dawn, it would not be his body that would finally break but the whip. Each feline whisker of the whip would be neutered and as limp as a pussy willow. That was how his cock should be but his tiger bone was still king. He would be bloody and damaged, not able to pick himself up from the cold stone slabs of the monk’s cell. He was a pitiful thing, devoid of pride, less than a flea circling around the mangiest of dogs, yet still he thought of her, only of her. 

And the itch at that time was at its most powerful and he would aggressively scratch his peeling flesh down to his own blood and guts with his bitten down nails. When not a strip of healthy skin remained on him, he would marvel at the bed of thorns he had made and collapse right onto it. 

His fingers gouged into the wood of the dais as he extolled his weekly sermon. The topic today was the creation of all mortals and their expulsion from paradise.

The one true god Paragus in his infinite wisdom and bounty decided to recreate his magnificence in a Saiyan counterpart so that he would have his own representative across the mortal realm. This first Saiyan was fashioned from the purest golden magic whose mystical material was also the basis of ki. Paragus named the first Saiyan Bardock, and he was the perfect likeness of his creator. 

But there are some qualities that are virtues for the one true god but are weaknesses in mortals. Paragus had existed prior to all other creation and evolution, when the entire cosmos was just a graveyard of potential and not the cradle of life. Omniscient beings by their very nature will glide through existence, but they will do it alone. Bardock too was alone, yet he possessed none of his creator’s self-reliance to thrive as only one. Paragus observed this slow deterioration of his creation from loneliness and as a compassionate gesture, formed a woman for Bardock out of unrefined fairy dust and called her Seripa. 

Children do not have to resemble their parents in temperament and personality, and those golden seeds of Paragus were more like demon spawn since they were combative and willful. Bardock and Seripa would always fight and their clashes were the most vociferous when it came to intercourse. Seripa refused to lie below a man, despite him being composed of magic and her of dust. 

She alleged to Bardock, “I will not lie beneath you for I belong on top.” 

Bardock was outraged, arguing that as a man he was superior and thus, she should occupy the bottom position. 

Seripa responded, “We were equals, both being molded from the hands of Paragus. But through the power of our own actions, I have become more equal than you.” 

The first husband and wife would not listen to one another and their marital life was one constant dispute. 

One day, Bardock and Seripa had engaged in another case of domestic abuse, and Bardock’s ribcage was protruding from his chest. In his wrath and insanity at being bonded to a disobedient woman, he tore one of his own ribs out and raised it to the heavens in supplication. “Paragus, the legendary god, you have always provided for me, bestowing me with a garden of Eden and a woman to console my solitude. But this woman has been touched by Dabura. She is no child of yours. So with this rib of mine I beg you to provide me with another woman, one who knows her place beneath a Saiyan man.” 

Paragus heard this plea and delivered yet again and from Bardock’s rib he crafted a new wife for Bardock, Gine, whose first action as thanks for being given life and a husband was to kneel. 

When Seripa saw this she laughed demonically and before she took flight to escape paradise forever, she pronounced with divine retribution…

Vegeta paused. Why in the name of Broly was he pontificating on such contentious subjects? Perhaps Raditz had prepared this sermon for him in jest to rib him for rebuffing his own desires. He contemplated the fable he was trying to preach and he was overwhelmed with the obvious comparison to her. Bulma was not the archetype of innocence like Gine, but was Seripa. She was Seripa, the notorious first woman created on Vegetasei, the azure goddess, seducing men in their sleep, a creature ruling over wet dreams, embodying freedom, chaos, dangerous and uncontrollable sexuality, but above all, terror. She was the mother of hundreds of demons rampaging through his veins. Bulma as Seripa, whiling her days away creating scientific miracles in that imposing ivory tower, while he retreated to the catacombs of the church to his isolated man cave to beat himself raw.

He tried to speak and continue the sermon but the words wouldn’t come. Under the duress of his pent-up emotions, he thought he was parched when he was really near salivating. He gulped down his saliva, but the water automatically replenished. Vegeta scanned his spellbound audience and he found her holding court in the middle of the front row pew. She had been staring with rapt attention at him this entire time with The Book of Revelations clutched tightly to her bosom. Once they made eye contact with each other, she smiled coquettishly at him, her smile revealing that her milk teeth were gone and that they had grown into tiger tusks. He diverted his eyes from her in embarrassment, pretending to rifle through his notes and to find the spot that he had left off on in the good book. Although he was on the stand, above all the Earthlings and Saiyans assembled there, he only knew of her dominion over him. If presented with the option, would he taste of her forbidden fruit or freely give his own rib to be free of her? Would he choose the divide or conquer approach?

His throat cleared and his oratory skills were restored. There was no use for his bible and he could recite the next part of the tale from memory. He looked back at her, his own teeth now bared, and she was positively beaming, with her agate-barred gaze never flinching. 

When Seripa saw this she laughed demonically and before she took flight to escape paradise forever, she pronounced with divine retribution, “As you were made to rule over all of Saiyankind, I was made to rule over you.” 

Bulma was mouthing the words, reciting them in perfect unison alongside him. And Vegeta was the one that was overruled just like Bardock had been long ago. And Church was dismissed. 

***

Vegeta was impatiently pacing the halls of the church to locate the asylum seekers’s quarters. Before the Saiyans’s visit to Earth, the preceding priest had welcomed a horde of interstellar refugees, the Namekians, who were fleeing a resurgent member of the Icejinn clan. The Namekians had never been indoctrinated with any religious manna. They were a peculiar people that were godless yet carried themselves with a neutral benevolence. There was something maybe almost agnostic in the stoicism of their manner that was antonymous to his piling defeatism. Vegeta never liked trying to reform the Namekians to the ways of Broly. Their unresponsive reactions to the most moving tenets of Brolyism had made him feel like he was just putting on a minstrel show until he also felt that everything he had been taught and had known was fraudulent and that the Namekians could see inside his soul for the real headline story, that this ambassador of god on Earth was struggling with the very faith he was trying to thrust onto them. For that reason, he had been procrastinating with the Namekians’s conversion studies, but today he would persist and make a new noble attempt. But Vegeta discovered to his vexation, that he had not only lost track of time with the Namekians, he had also lost his sense of direction too. He could not remember the route to the guest accommodations. There was some azure mist fogging up every corner of his mind. Bulma just had to unjustly pervert the course of his life both literally and figuratively. 

Vegeta climbed the stairs and entered an unfamiliar hallway to a series of airy rooms that although dowdy now must have been quaintly charming in their prime. This must have been the entertainment wing of the church, closed off for some years now, but once were the setting for charitable balls and wedding receptions. As he approached the end of these ghostly and neglected rooms, he heard such beautiful music, the devil’s music, that he immediately knew must have originated from her fingers. 

His ears pricked, his ear canal was near bursting with the audio, and he fell sway to eternal glory, the power of which cannot be resisted, as he opened and closed doors to find the source of this sound. This music was the soundtrack to his own descent through hell and it was violent, seething and unearthly. Alternating between frantic and dark and calm and sublime, his soul undertook the same transitions, and Vegeta inhaled a staccato breath. 

Bulma, the pied piper of Earth was leading him to his doom with such an redolent melody. And he imagined her fingers flying across piano keys like they were the divots of his abs and he imagined her blowing hot air into the holes of a flute or blowing on his pipe…

He opened the final door and abandoned all hope as he entered. There she was playing the piano, her back towards him but he could still detect the furious determination and desperation in every tremor of her body as she hit the keys. From far away, he wondered why she was even here. It was not Sunday but Wednesday, what the Earthlings referred to as hump day…She had never frequented the church afterhours or on rest days. 

Vegeta stood behind her silently, just watching and listening to the tremendous power emitted from her music as she simultaneously shuddered with religious epilepsy. The first three opening movements of her piece were all blue fire and brimstone alluding to the misery of life and the horrific torments that she was making him suffer. But then it eventually passed away, like he had already atoned for his sins, and in the next movement, his next life was unencumbered by any strife or division. With every rise and fall of her rhythm, she was transporting him to heaven then plummeting him straight back down to Earth. 

When she finally finished the overture, she turned towards him, like she knew he had been there all along. Despite the fervor of her playing she was once again perfectly composed, her breaths smooth and connected, legato to his staccato ones. 

Courageously, Vegeta stepped towards her and asked rather sanctimoniously, “What was that?” 

She smiled that Sunday service grin at him again but this time her tiger tusks looked more blunted and weren’t filed into points. “Dante’s Symphony, it’s about the spiritual journey from inferno to purgatory to paradise.” Her voice reached a higher note, “Do you know how to play?” 

Vegeta looked acerbically at her. “There is no use for music on Vegetasei besides the sounds of bones cracking and bloodcurdling screams”. 

She smiled more, sinisterly revealing a slight dimple in her left cheek. “How about I teach you? We can start with an easy one.” She moved to the right, making room for him on the piano bench. 

Vegeta slumped down beside her, complete in his defeat and ordered friably, “Play it again for me.” 

And Bulma played for him and his organ came out to play as well. It was beyond hope, beyond his capacity to suppress it, for she had made him the devil’s puppet. He tried making a fist but there was no strength, firmness or resilience in it. 

Her art if it was not portraying heaven itself, was a glimpse of heaven from a distance. As the symphony was at its height, she sang along with perfect pitch in a language he didn’t know and wouldn’t ever understand. Although she was alone, her melody overpowered everything with violent disruption as if it came from a chorus of angels. At its conclusion, her music softened from a fortissimo blaze of glory into the shimmer of a new dawn. 

His moral compass was going haywire, spinning in all directions and his cock, needling him in his pants, pointed true north towards her. And this was all just a divine tragicomedy for him, so he chuckled morosely. 

But beneath the intensity of her delirious beat, there was an undertone of something else, even hotter and swifter, that she tried to half-heartedly disguise beneath the weltschmerz of her music. 

Her face was now invisible to him, cloaked in the sleeve of her robe, but before she had retired, he had seen the tears that had sprung forth like stigmata from her eyes. 

Almost as if he understood the reason behind her tears, he hollowly stated, “I’m certain you’ll have no trouble making it into heaven.” 

Bulma hammered her fists onto the keyboard. She responded with a skeptic snort followed by a wail that moved thickly through the room like a fetid draft. She extracted her face from her robe, so he could observe the tears running down her face and she was as sanguine in her sorrow as Bloody Mary. “Father, you’re wrong,” she whispered, I have a one-way ticket to hell you see.” 

Vegeta was shocked yet also not surprised. This prudish rule-abiding thing that secretly sinned, what other fate could await her in the afterlife? 

He swallowed thickly, his drool refilling once again in his mouth. He stared at her, considering whether he should comfort her or consolidate her claim. Not sure whether it was an offer directed at her or himself, he stammered, “Would you like to make confession?”

***

She began by making the sign of the cross, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ki. My last confession was…well I have never confessed before.” 

In the confessional booth, Vegeta was on one side sitting in an armchair set in stone while Bulma was on the other side tensely positioned on a wooden board like it was a hedgehog that was bristling her behind. There was only a grille separating them and through the lattice opening, he was intimately aware of her shallow breathing and depressed sobs up close. Her voice drifted over to him, unfiltered by the dividing screen.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

He saw her try to shrink away, her face veiled by both the dark in the box and the hood to her robe that was now fastened tightly around her head. He could recognize that she was covering herself from shame while she bared her soul to him. She twisted her prayer cloth sullenly in her hand. 

“When I was a child, a fortune teller once told me that one day I would be misled by an apostate masquerading as a servant of god and that my life would change forever from this all too predictable evil and that I would transform into a licentious character who had an angelic face when I really was the devil in disguise. That day came and went and now I perform more and more immoral idolatry in the sight of Paragus. I have permitted sexual thoughts for someone to whom I am not wed. I’m in love – no, I lust for a man. A forbidden man. He’s mad and deadly, bad and dangerous. His power and pulchritudinous masculinity are staggering. It’s almost as if he exists out of god’s reach, never having been touched by him, as his own dark deity. Yes, he must be a god of destruction amongst all the other gods.” 

Vegeta’s hand raced to his coiled erection that was sticking awkwardly to his thigh, and he noticed that her hand was no longer visible either, pocketed away somewhere in the folds of her long dove grey robe.

“Sister, you speak blasphemy, there is only one true god, the legendary lord Paragus.” 

Her head snapped up so quickly that her hood started to displace and her loose tendrils of hair rattled at him like sea snakes. “Paragus would recognize him as his own, as his equal.” 

Vegeta bit down his sigh of anguish. “If you love and not just lust for this man then worship him through the sanctity of marriage.” 

Bulma beat her hand against her chest, and Vegeta noted that two of her fingers were glistening. “I would marry him in a heartbeat yet I fear he would never have me as his. At most, he could loan me his body, but I could not hope for more. We are from two different worlds and he is destined to leave me and that was why I cried. Not being with him is my version of hell.”

Who was this mysterious man she talked of so promiscuously that the lust near shattered her vocal chords like resonant orgasmic contractions? Was she enthralled with Kakarot? That was the only male she was known to have as a friend. The urge to kill was rising in him and envy was sprouting like radioactive ki from out of his skull. Kakarot would have to be immediately shipped back to Vegetasei.

“That is my testimony and why I am hell-bound,” she bawled. 

To anyone else, her confession would have just sounded like consecrated infatuation, but to him, she made this first love sound more profound and eternal than an entire life devoted to god. 

“Examine your conscience. Only you know if this is a mortal sin or a venial one that will pass with sufficient prayer. The lord will absolve you of all your sins as long as you confess and are truly contrite.”

She looked through the bars of the grille at him. Her eyes were also striped with darkness as her flames burned low. 

In a gentle motion, she removed the metal slate of the grille, creating a glory hole between them. Her hand was clenched so that it appeared almost circular as she fit it through the square peg of open space towards him. “That’s the thing father, I’m not sorry for desecrating the lord’s name. I feel no guilt for committing a sin, there’s only the guilt of a missed opportunity if I don’t get what I want.”

Vegeta felt his member form into a wooden stake that was trying to stab through his trousers. His tone was cold but that was only to dispel some of the heat surrounding him and was not meant to chastise her. There was nothing he could advise her with. How could he when he was trapped in the same moral quandary as her? He drew on some empty words, “I recommend that you consult scripture for guidance. I will assign you some passages to read to diminish the punishment you shall receive in the afterlife.”

“The afterlife?” Bulma repeated crazed. “But I suffer now!”

She calmed herself a tad then sighed, “Pray for me, will you Father?”

He momentarily forgot in her feigned innocence that she was the epitome of sin. “Of course, my Sister. I would take all the burdens of your sins if I were able.”

“You would? You would actually relieve me of my sin?” 

“If only there was a way on god’s green earth.” 

“There is a way.” 

Bulma jumped from the confessional and pulled apart the curtain hanging across the entrance to his side of the stall. She pounced on him like the tiger that she was and hugged him. 

In the radical embrace of her suffering, Vegeta put one arm charily around her so that he could absolve her of her trespasses and transfer the load to his own shoulders. 

Her head was resting on his chest, and she didn’t look up as she said, “I must ask you again. Would you actually relieve me of my sin?” 

“Yes,” he hissed, and there was some anger in his concession. 

Bulma elevated herself so that she was level with his regard. She clasped his face to hers and commanded, “Then take it from my lips.” 

Before he could respond, she was kissing him, and he was accepting her sin till his cup runneth over. His eyes exploded with religious visions, where his entire life flashed before his eyes and there was a blue blinking light at the end of the tunnel. Her tongue that assaulted his was teaching him the dead language of passion. Suddenly, he knew what his hands were really for, to pick and gather, and he basketed her plump apple bottom in his palms. For a while, they supported each other as infidels, experimenting with every kiss known to man and devising their own, until she ushered them back to the present, by arching away from him and respiring asthmatically. 

Vegeta’s lips were chapped, the moral vacuum of her mouth must have drained all of his pusillanimous objections. He growled, but for what cause, he was not completely certain; however, he could already feel himself start to crash from the sugar high of her kisses. 

It was him. It was he who she wanted. Had she ached for him like he had ached for her? He began to shake from the joyful anxiety of it all. But why? Was she an agent sent by the Icejinns to corrupt him and to put the royal lineage into disrepute? 

“Who are you?” he demanded. 

“I am an inventor, a simple carpenter working with what’s broken and needs to be fixed.” Bulma pressed her forehead to his, her warm breath cascading down his neck. “But now I’m broken and need to be repaired. Would you accept more of my sin or have I impinged too much on your hospitality already?” With all iris and no pupils, her eyes were overcome by brilliant blue flames. 

He didn’t know who he was anymore, he only knew that he had to caress the flames. The devil had taken root inside him. 

“I…I can accept more.” 

And Bulma was back on her feet, standing before him. Vegeta leered at her, his acceptance was not for space, and she had not even been close to overstaying her welcome on his lap. How could he help her rectify her life when she was so far removed? Bulma had her plans, and without warning, the air turned to blood and his lust screamed and screamed without a peep of sound. 

She doffed her robe with no false modesty, confident in every orifice of her body and the church-like reverence it inspired. From grey and drab like a female hen, to red and sexy as a cardinal, the shroud concealing the great work of art of her body was finally being unveiled. 

Vegeta stared at her like all the angels and demons and lost souls that roamed the Earth were there in the box with them right then. She was not even fully nude, yet somehow her choice of outfit was even more arousing. And he hoped that she would give him more bread and circuses. Slowly, she approached him again, and he was scared. What would Broly say? What would Broly do? Was he abjuring the Saiyan throne because of this chicanery? 

Bulma brushed his lips again, quietening the drone of his protestations. And Vegeta let Bulma take the wheel.

Bulma rearranged the clerical collar above his shirt and coaxed him into her limelight. He had had no advice for her, but she just seemed to know what to say to sanctify everything. 

“Vegeta, we are just passive matter governed by an unfeeling universe, just emanations of rising flames from a primordial fire, and all we are destined to do is to burn with passion. So cast aside this ill-filling mask of decency that’s coarsely woven from doctrine. And then let me rip it all to shreds with my claws as the tigress you’ll adore.”

Vegeta shook his head, and his mask must have slipped. He diverged further from the path of righteousness. With a hint of a tease, he corrected, “That’s Father Vegeta to you.” 

“You’re Vegeta and I’m Bulma,” she refuted with one hand on her hip, “but I’ll even call you daddy if you’d like.” 

How could this girl challenge him so quickly and so pruriently? He changed the subject. “What kind of outfit is that?” 

The garb she had on was unsubstantial and absolutely depraved. On Vegetasei, the women only dressed in armour for battle or in state-sanctioned garments that indicated their pedigree and availability. What Bulma was wearing was in the same class as what the baby prostitutes on the slave distributing planets wore. She was clad in a tight white blouse that abruptly cut off at the swell of her breasts, so a meaty portion of underboob was flashing him. Her shirt was also barely held together by a loosely tied pussy bow knot. If he pulled slightly on the knot, he would be served with the creamy puffs of her breasts. The skirt she had on was patterned with a tartan motif and was obscenely short, so that he could see her candied apples bobbing just beneath the fringe. Her long gamine legs were overlaid with white woollen stockings that ended just below the knee. At least she had on some sensible footwear, patent black Mary Janes without a heel, so that she wasn’t taller than him. It was without a doubt some fetish costume that human men fancied, the clichéd school girl’s outfit. He had suspected, but was still amazed at the goddess of love body before him that the parishioner’s habit she had regularly worn had almost mitigated into looking androgynous. 

“It’s my uniform,” she explained brazenly. “I wore it for show and tell with you today.” 

“I…I don’t recall organizing any such fashion show for the church.”

“You didn’t? I guess I could always just use it as the costume for the talent show that I’ll be putting on right now?”

Vegeta looked sternly at her as she adjusted the buckle on her shoe. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of extracurricular activities before? Even after all these months on Earth? Everyone always tells me that I have a natural ability for whatever I attempt and I’ve got quite the party trick for you. I’ve never even practiced this particular one yet so you’ll be the first to see and feel it.”

“You mean music?” 

Bulma laughed lyrically, and Vegeta’s skin was as tight as a drum as she repositioned herself on his lap. “I was only singing in that choir for you to notice me and to take my immortal soul to heaven. I was never singing Amazing Grace, I always changed the lyrics to Amazing Race, because what an amazing race the Saiyan race is.”

Vegeta’s face reddened, what a vulgar girl, he thought. 

His face was hot but even his extremities were boiling, and he became hotter still as Bulma’s hand drifted downwards, affixing to his most piping hot appendage. As she stroked him hard and rough, he felt such an extraordinary closeness to god that he had never encountered previously. As he floated up towards heaven, he didn’t notice her removing his cassock and pants, so that he now only had on his boxers and vestment. When she went to unbutton his vestment as well, temporarily halting his celestial progress, he regained some clarity from his high, and shoved her off him and she landed right in front of his legs. 

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

“Sharpening your pencil,” she said, while batting her sooty lashes. 

She was soliciting sex in the confessional. That was definitely a cardinal offense. 

He pictured Raditz giggling in his head, “As if something like that hasn’t happened a million times before in the past. This is the love box. So what are you waiting for Vegeta?” 

Yes, what was he waiting for? He was speeding on the highway to hell and there was no way to hitchhike back to heaven now. He might as well go all the way and adapt himself to burning to death over and over again for all eternity.

In the short time it had taken him to wrestle with his conscience, she had already discarded his boxers. And she was crying as she grasped his naked cock, her little hand scarcely able to encircle it. “Holy, holy, holy…holy shit! Is it supposed to be that large?” she admired. 

She brought his erection to her face, rubbing it softly against her cheek, purring like the magnificat. Then she went down, wrenching his legs apart with one small twist of her hands.

Starting with just a chaste kiss at the tip of his cock, she tasted him. There was something familial about her method like she was licking on an ice cream cone much too slowly so that the treat just melted away on her hands and not in her mouth. Her oral skills were treating him like he was still Father Vegeta and she was still Sister Bulma, when he was agonizing for a slave master to disembowel him. He bucked his hips for her to take him in deeper, and that was all the encouragement she needed, and she opened her devil’s chalice wide.

She could not fit his entire cock in her petite mouth. This fact along with her suckling, filled him with intense gratification. Try as she might, her witchcraft was no match for the power wielded from his own wand. She could not debase him with her evil, she would gag on his goodness first. 

She lifted her mouth from his cock and made a triangular bond around him with her hands instead. “Do you like when I pray to your manhood in penitence and not to some false god?” 

Everything she did and said, that was the sin in every movement in the flesh. These questions of hers were like the inquisition. He choked hard, unable to answer. It was a rhetorical question that couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no, and she must have known that for she did not expand on the matter. 

She went back to the grind, spitting on his dick like a Salem cat, playing with his balls of yarn until they hardened to balls of steel. She compressed his balls like they were just grapes that would be smushed into wine. The heat of her mouth returned to his rod and she hummed happily against him in a new tantalizing vibration. 

“What are you praying?” he asked, lost to her music. 

“I’m not praying. I’m reciting the national hymn of Vegetasei, and you’re so patriotic that you were already standing at attention before the opening bars even began.”

Her mouth slid across his length, faster and more urgently now. If she continued to pray to him like that, hailing Dabura with her mouth and hands united in sin, then it would surely bring about the end of days. After some vigorous tugs from her, he felt sparks fly. 

An indecorous braying noise as thundering as the three horsemen of the apocalypse was expelled from his throat and that prompted her to detach from him again.

“Not yet,” she said, smacking her lips together in triumph. “Let me see you stripped of sin first.”

Somehow he knew what she was implying, but he no longer cared and it was no longer an insult for her to insinuate that it was filthiness and not cleanliness that was next to godliness. He just wanted more dirt. He let forth another coltish neigh of discontent as he unbuttoned his vestment and flung it onto the stinking pile of their religious raiment. 

There was only one article of clothing remaining, the cross of moonstones that weighed him down. He squeezed the cross in his hand, hoping that the jewels would disband into atoms on their own, so that he would not have to be held accountable for disposing of the most important religious symbol of his people from around his neck. 

Bulma must have sensed some of his distress in not yet being ready to cross the final frontier, and maybe that made her act more piously, as she ignored that one last sin of his and returned to her spot at his altar. 

She gasped as she saw his front that was striated with red welts from his whipping sessions. Gently, she touched all of his of scars, both self-inflicted and from battle, taking special care in tracing one scar in the shape of a pentagram that was etched above his heart. “Is this because of me?” she asked despondently. 

Vegeta didn’t reply, he only fidgeted churlishly. Of course she was the patron saint of discord that he carried like an icon to his chest. But why was she concentrating on old wounds when his balls were turning black and blue from inattention?

“I will heal you then,” she promised. 

Vegeta felt something whip across his abdomen with a soft thud and not a crack. And it was a much more fulfilling scratch than that which came from the feline claws of the cat o’ nine tails because she was using his own cock to whip himself. It was like he was finally scratching himself with a blade when he had only had rusty nails at his disposal before, and with each whack of his cock against his graffitied body, the itch receded, and the cat scratch fever was gone. In its place was something wet, collecting right below his solar plexus. It had to be blood from one of his numerous wounds splitting open, but as he directed his gaze downwards, the wetness was as crystal clear as holy water. 

Bulma licked at his drizzle and when she had licked him clean, she straightened her body back up to stare at the track marks her tongue had left in a wild goose chase all across his front and Vegeta stared at her pussy bow knot that had begun to unravel, revealing the tips of her dusky pink nipples. 

He gripped her full breast for an interminable second, lifting her top until her nipples were again out of sight and retied the bow to her most decadent presents. “Not yet,” he lectured himself. It was not right to open all of his gifts in one sitting. 

“Didn’t you promise to heal me?” he challenged huskily.

Bulma reasserted her pride of place as the fulcrum between his thighs and sucked on his cock again. The rapid flicks of her tongue were doing god’s work. 

The sound of church bells ringing in the distance was as loud as an air raid siren. Each moist suck from her was another hour in detention with no recess ever again. He was having an epiphany, where he realized that he had the power to turn water into wine. He pulled on the two bell ropes of her pigtails, so that he could inter himself down the back of her throat. The chorus of angels from earlier was back and shrieking in his ears, the final bell tolled and his schooling was erased and dismissed from his soul once and for all. 

This was it and there it was, Vegeta had lost his religion and had become a faithless man. And hark the herald angels sing for that epiphany issued his own revival, a revival of B. In jubilation, a wild burst of his champagne popped into her mouth. 

Bulma emerged breathlessly from between his legs. Her tongue searched for stray droplets of his essence across her cheeks just like she did for the alcohol during communion, but this time the wine was white not red, was sweet not bitter and was not vintage but had been plucked straight off the vine. She picked herself off the floor with a small oof and Vegeta thought that it must be tiring, being on your knees all day…praying. 

Resettling in his lap, she asked, “Did you like having a blowjob? I’m a natural just like I said. I must have been born to kneel, don’t you think? So aren’t you going to give me an A++ and a gold star for some top-notch work?”

He was limp and ragged, still experiencing the last few spasms of orgasm. Today he had been blessed and he would never have to repent again. There were no words to thank her with, no words to describe how phenomenal it was to give in to temptation, no words to portray his happiness at having the object of his desires parked above him. He just sank his head onto her hair, finally being allotted some rest and relaxation, and held her close. 

After a while of holy serenity, her hands reconfigured and formed a chokehold around his neck. Her expression was grim, her eyebrows were slanted and her eyes were narrowed into slits so that he could only see an ominous glint of the flames within them. “I commanded you to let me see you stripped of sin. You are being naughty.” 

With her index finger, she daintily lifted the chain of his cross, as if it would contaminate her. “You disobeyed, and tried to hide this costume jewelry from me, thinking that I would overlook it.” She bellowed at him, “Now take it off. A prince should only be bedecked with the finest of jewels.”

She ripped the cross from his neck in a startling demonstration of strength, and Vegeta saw some of the rosary beads clatter noiselessly to the floor. Bulma inspected the cross sitting in her open palm as if it were a cursed amulet that would deliver all the plagues of Egypt, then suddenly drove it into her mouth. 

In a queasy mixture of arousal and awed mortification, Vegeta observed her mouth laving on the cross and each link in the chain until the sparkle was decolourized off each and every moonstone and the only spotlight came from the spit lighting up her mouth. The cross and its heavy moonstones pistoned back and forth in her mouth, in exact imitation to how she had attended to his phallic need. And he was struck by another spark of envy, since it was his stigma she was sucking on and not his manly pride. 

Finally, Bulma lowered the cross, leaving a wet happy trail along her cleavage, down her navel to under her skirt. 

“What are you doing?” 

A devilish smirk was her only reply. 

She lifted her skirt using the vertical line of his cross. She had no panties on so he could glimpse her land of milk and honey that was a feast fit for a king. 

He understood what she intended to do. “No, no, don’t,” he said meekly. 

She looked back at him hurt, with the blue fire in her eyes a bit subdued. “You don’t want me to have any fun? That’s not very priestly of you considering I just got you off.” 

Bulma retracted the cross from her thigh, and her skirt breezed back down, starving him once again. She returned to her prayer stance between his legs, and pried, “Or are you just ornery that I’m leaving you high and dry?” 

His cock was back in her demonic clutch and her mouth was at his wick; he was hard again with his self-control winnowing down drip by drip like an advent candle. She drew up the tension in him with capillary action, until his fuel reached her flame and he just wanted to vaporize and combust. Vulgar words were whispered on his cock as a supplemental stimulant. 

“Don’t you want to get me off before you offload on me again?”

He didn’t know that he had agreed, he was only aware of his mouth being as dry as the desert while he watched the parted red sea of her lips moaning baroquely. He had been riveted as he had watched his cross breaching her just at her entrance. Over and over again, she had inserted the cross only just past the doorway to her cunt as a shallow knock and not as a ramrod. Finally, the cross came out of her inner sanctuary warm and glowing with wax. Bulma dangled the cross over his head, and her hot wax dripped sparsely into his open mouth. Her flavour was not of tallow or paraffin but was a candy crush. His tongue stretched to the cross so that he could drink and not just have a sip of her. But Bulma yanked the chain back, and threw the cross aside. 

She saddled herself back on top of him and now it was his cock that was lapping at her spilt milk. “That’s enough foreplay. I don’t want the cross,” she grieved. “I don’t want a symbol of peace. Give me the rapier! Give me a happy death caused by your heaven on Earth instead!” 

His hands belted her to him. 

“Ready for the rapture?” she winked, “It’s going to be one hell of a wild ride.” 

Without waiting for his final consent, she impaled herself on his wooden stake, which was the only mode of self-destruction for a succubus like her. She rode him into the ground and his stake became just a dull nub. She pounded him down onto her crucifix while he nailed his Theses to her door. 

After a few particularly violent thrusts, he noticed her blood as extra lubrication on his cock. But didn’t succubi crumble to dust and not a flood of sensual fluids? 

“You are pure,” he ejaculated, astounded. Bulma had seemed so experienced but she was a novice just like him. She was just a natural, a natural born fucker just like she had claimed. 

“Yes, I was saving my purity for god – a Saiyan god.” 

Oh god, she was only his, she had waited just for him. A different thrill unrelated to anything sexual channeled through him. 

She cupped his balls and stated, “You are also untouched by sin.” 

“Until you came along,” he muttered. 

Bulma laughed, building up their fire with greater speed. “What’s your excuse? Who were you waiting for? A wiccan goddess? I’m here now.” 

As they delighted in the consummation of their desires, she did the most unpardonable thing of all. Just before the moment of ascension, she stopped entirely, disengaging herself from him and said no, or was it not yet again? Vegeta was too drunk on her to tell.

“I need you to confess,” she demanded. “You wanted me ever since you first laid eyes on me, didn’t you? You just didn’t think god would permit it?” 

He nodded weakly at her. 

“Confess to me properly dammit!” 

Anything to get her back on top of him.

“I confess,” he snarled. “I desired you from the very first glance. I desire to penetrate your every orifice from your cunt to your heart to your brain. I confess!” 

With her hand at her heart, Bulma declared, “And as god as my witness, you shall have it all.” 

At last, Vegeta rose from the stone armchair and finally took charge of his kingdom. He grabbed her arm, and took her in an accursed kiss. Making just the smallest gap between their lips so he could talk, he gripped her arm harder and said, “I will worm my way into the fruit of your loins and my snake bite will take you away from this matrix and into my true paradise of darkness that consumes with only pleasure.” 

He flipped her so that she was on her back and brutally invaded her manger. He was now the magi who would bear orgasmic gifts to her. His nose was at her neck and she smelled of frankincense and myrrh and her hair shone just like gold. In one beautiful thrust, he found her golden needle in the hay, and he traveled through the eye of her needle with elephant force. 

It didn’t take long before her needle started to prick until it was like she was the one stabbing him and not the other way around. Her silken glove had turned more rigid and ribbed, like it was her body’s retaliation against him looming into her. Her eyes were stain-glassed in ecstasy and then she blessed him again with operatic moans and in one final clench, her body released onto his. 

However, her release made him more caged. He felt like he was being ripped in two, with his own saint and sinner finally being separated and torn apart at the seams. But she brought it all together again inside him, sewing him into his Sunday best, in a new golden fleece for him to wear, and he was flying from this world until he was over the moon and careening through the centre of the sun, melting and disintegrating into a waxwork of molten pleasure at her feet. 

It must have been less than a minute but it seemed like hours had passed, when Bulma’s voice pierced his through stupor, remarking, “And god said let there be light.” 

There was blistering gold wreathed all around him and he was pulsing with immeasurable strength. He was a Super Saiyan. Broly had been surpassed. Vegeta was the second coming. He was the resurrection and the light. 

He assessed the gold dancing at his fingertips then turned to Bulma. “Is this heaven? Am I an angel? A Super Saiyan angel?” 

A satin sash of his gold tied around her waist and reeled her in towards him. 

She looked astutely at him, his face was a fresco of renaissance art at both the pleasure she had granted him and at the legendary he had achieved. She smiled deferentially at him with almost maternal pride at his varied accomplishments from just that day. 

“Oh Vegeta no,” she replied with amusement, “we’re still on Earth but rest assured, when we die, we’ll be going straight to hell.” 

“May heaven help us,” he said out of habit, still too stunned to grasp anything except that he was golden now. 

Bulma shrugged with a devil-may-care attitude. “It’s too late for that but no matter, all the fun people are down in hell anyways. I’ll be there. Don’t you want to fuck me in the flames of hell? I bet the flames will tickle our assholes.”

He stared at her as she wiped his semen off with her prayer cloth. Her pussy was even emitting a faint spectral radiance of its own. 

“Let’s drop this circus act Vegeta. No more role play about being religious role models. Let’s just be ourselves. So what do you say?”

“But who are you really?” he asked amazed. “You can’t be just an Earthling.” She must have been a product of the immaculate conception to help him ascend like that.

Bulma approached him, giving him a chaste peck on the lips. “I am a humble missionary from Earth, sent to convert you to my religion from the missionary position and beyond. You know, I never really believed in your god Paragus, definitely not as the almighty lord. Before you Saiyans came and converted us, we had our own ancient gods, Kami and Dende who were the guardians of Earth and above them was only one, the king of all named Zeno. But now I only believe in you Vegeta.” 

She stroked his face and his gold ciliated her hand. “How old are you Vegeta?” 

“Eighteen.” 

“Eighteen, no longer a boy but not yet a man, and still young enough to be brainwashed yet old enough to know better.” 

“And how old are you?” he griped. He really couldn’t tell her age. She was as wise as a crone yet fully in the bloom of youth. 

“Who me? I’m sweet sixteen.” 

Through a different moral prism, where the truth could be refracted in any direction, maybe she was right, maybe her pagan gods were correct whereas his former religion had been distorted too monochromatically until it transmuted once pure light into something that cast only shadow. 

“Let’s drop the act,” he relented. “To hell with it all.” 

And Bulma kissed him all across his face in glee, her lips were now flaked with gold as well. “So you know what it means now Vegeta? To ascend at the hands of a woman? And do you like it?” 

His ki surged in approval. 

“I’ll love you Vegeta, but only if you make me kneel and never put yourself below me with religion. I refuse to lie beneath you as a carefully hidden vice. I will only lie beneath your thrusting hips, or atop your thighs as your insatiable equal, where we both lie in subservience to the other.”

And he would earn that love from her for she was his god-given right, the divine feminine to his divine masculine. 

“But I must warn you now,” she threatened, “if you dare leave me here on Earth alone, your body will never be satisfied again. You will take me back, take me back after this grand tour of yours is over, back to your kingdom as your queen. And I will be the queen of the damned to your king of sodom and together we will introduce the golden age of the Saiyans. That is what I propose and do you accept it?”

He said no words but located his cross from off the floor and welded the broken rosaries with ki so that it now hung as a necklace around her neck. That was the sign of his acceptance. 

There would be mutiny when he brought her back to Vegetasei, but he was a Super Saiyan now and that would squash any rebellion to their new age. He would protect her. She’d be his girl in a golden bubble, impenetrable to any other immoral influences besides her own autoimmune one and his own invading one. “My queen of the damned,” he crooned to her, liking the sound of it against his teeth. 

He carried her in his arms and was flying them past the cathedral. He saw her inspecting the cross again which was now imbued with fresh symbolism and said, “Just so you know, those jewels are real, rare and very expensive.”

“Really?” she said in disbelief. “But it looks so cheap. Once we get to Vegetasei, you’ll have to melt this junk down into something useful like anal beads or…”

Vegeta pulled on the chain around her neck to make her shut up. 

They flew for a few minutes in silence until Bulma murmured, “But where are you taking me now?” 

“To my bedchamber.” 

“Oh no, we’ll wait. We won’t fuck again until I’m officially your queen. After all, I am very traditional and I want an elaborate wedding ceremony and to put it in writing first. The whole shebang.”

Flabbergasted, Vegeta sputtered incoherently at her. How could she initiate something miraculous and then revoke it right after? He almost wanted to drop her and let her fall to her untimely death. 

She socked him in the arm. “Just kidding! Lighten up Vegeta,” she gibed, although he was already glowing, but now his gold was intermingled with a light pink blush.


End file.
